Beginnings

As I look back on my life, I see little to be proud of. My failures trail me like the luxurious if slightly obnoxious stretch of a wedding train. Ironically, the only semblance of minute pride in my life comes from my ability to drift from failure to failure with seemingly minimal shame. I’ve been the group fool, the drunken slut, the loud-mouthed accuser, the high-horsed hypocrite, and yet I’m still able to sit here in the comfort of my own home, able to write this draft, as though none of these have ever affected my sensibility.
I think to myself, what kind of consciousness it is that resides in my mind. It is no regular empathetic emblem, nor is it quite the twisted depravity of a soulless one. I feel, but only pity for myself, for having others about to witness my transgressions. Shouldn’t what I feel be the regret of such actions, for how they hurt others and not how they hurt me? My compassion isn’t entirely lacking, as much as it is skewed, in favour of me. So I sit here and wonder, where exactly do I go from here? For whatever reason I am permitted to continue living. My life as of right now seems like it might stretch on forever. So what changes here, what must change here, so that my life becomes a little less reminiscent of the great hall of fail and more so of the mediocre passage, of life well worn, and somewhat accomplished?